Summary: Spock and McCoy have some fun with strawberries
and chocolate and clothing. PWP.

Disclaimer: Star Trek, Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy
all belong to Paramount. I just like to play with them, then hand them back, unharmed. Mostly.

___________________

FUN WITH STRAWBERRIES

“Hi, Spock.”

The first officer looks up as the good doctor
cheerfully enters his quarters, without signaling, as usual. “Is this the attire you had in mind?” Spock asks
as he sets down his PADD, rises from the desk, walks over. He spins around, slowly and allows the human to inspect his lean
form.

Earlier that day, the doctor had been nosing
around in Spock’s wardrobe, spotting the tucked away folded up ensemble in a drawer and demanding: “Wear this
tonight”.

“Oh, Lordy…” McCoy gives out
a strangled gasp. “That’s…that’s’ a really good look for you.” Definitely an understatement.
The sight is so erotic, McCoy is now painfully aware of his hardness now trapped in his trousers.

Spock looks absolutely delicious in tight, faded
blue jeans that appear to be painted on. Denim clings to his ass, moving with him, showing off a tremendous bulge in the front.
Spock’s also wearing a soft grey cotton T-shirt that clings to every muscle in the forearms. McCoy’s mouth twitches
at the sight. He can’t tear his eyes away. “Where…” He gulps down a mouthful of air as he realizes
the Vulcan is barefoot. His eyes dart back to the bulge. “Where did…you get those jeans?”

“The denim trousers were a gift from my
mother.”

“They’re called ‘jeans’
Spock. Blue jeans.”

“Ah. Duly noted. Jeans.”

“Amanda sent these to you, huh?”
McCoy keeps up the ogling. “I’ll have to…uh…thank her…”

Spock rolls his eyes. “I have indulged
in your demands. Have you brought along the item I have requested?”

“Just adequate?” McCoy’s lips
mash forward in a slight pout. “Guess again. These are the biggest, ripest strawberries I could find. This chocolate
I got from France. I melted it in Christine’s fondue pot and hand-dipped them myself. No synthed shit for you, darlin’.
Lucky for you it was a slow day in sickbay.”

“Indeed,” Spock replies. “I
can ascertain by the succulent odor they are real, hand grown strawberries. I was expecting you to bring to me a bar of French
chocolate as I’d requested. I am however, intrigued at this and gratified that you have found a use for the arboretum
strawberry plants.”

“Good. I’m glad you approve.”
McCoy bounces his heels. “Well, instead of wasting our precious time yammering about it, how about we--”

“That is the best idea I have heard all
day, Doctor.”

McCoy smiles and holds out his arms. “Goddammit.
Come here. I’ve missed you, you Vulcan pain in the ass.”

Spock goes to him, gets close enough to smell
the Saurian Brandy on his breath. He takes two fingers and traces McCoy’s soft lips. “First, dinner.”

Oh Jeezus…

McCoy’s sitting across from the Vulcan
and watching that damned hobgoblin fill out very nicely those fucking tight blue jeans. It is an absolute torture, sitting
here at the desk, making polite dinner conversation when he is nearly dying from the goddamned anticipation.

McCoy doesn’t want to eat a thing. He wants
to touch that perfect, huge bulge residing in the front of those jeans. He wants to run his hands along the firm, strong,
slender thighs. He wants to feel the thick fabric and hem under his fingers. He wants to grab onto that well formed ass. He
wants to throw that Vulcan down onto the deck, undo that button fly and suck him off, swallowing everything Spock can pump
into his mouth. He wants the Vulcan to retaliate by sucking him off. He wants to straddle those hips. Hips that have a slight
indentation at the waist. Perfect for grabbing and straddling. He wants to slide that massive Vulcan cock inside him. He wants--

He tries to avoid gulping down his food.

Just a few bites more.

Done.

“Finished already, Doctor?”

Goddamned right he is. “Oh…”
McCoy lets out a puff of air and says in all innocence: “I was hungry.”

“Evidently. Shall we have dessert?”

At that invitation—and he doesn’t
need to be asked twice-- McCoy pulls the hobgoblin over to the bunk, yanks him down to sit, pulls out a chocolate dipped strawberry
out of the box and holds it up to his lips. Spock tries to pluck it out of his grasp with his fingers. “Uh uh.”
McCoy shakes his head insistently. “Open your damned mouth.”

Spock’s graceful eyebrow heads up to his
bangs in a mental question mark, but he obeys, tentatively sticks out his tongue in response, touches the very end of the
swollen red fruit, caked in the rich brown chocolate. He closes his eyes in appreciation of the taste. The chocolate melts
immediately upon contact with the heat of the alien tongue.

“You like?” McCoy chuckles.

“Exquisite.”

“So, you’ll really get drunk just
from consuming chocolate, huh?”

“I believe I have told you as much. As
drunk as you are from brandy at this very moment, Doctor.”

McCoy sighs in irritation: “I am not that
drunk. And the name’s ‘Leonard’.”

“There you go. I’m not feeding you
strawberries so you can keep on calling me by my title.”

“In that case, Leonard—mmmphh…”

McCoy giggles maniacally, then his eyes widen
in lust. He is nearly undone at the sight of Spock’s mouth clamped around the large strawberry. He can’t help
but imagine that same mouth, eventually encased tonight around his own aching cock. He stares dreamily into those doey, brown
eyes as those pearly white teeth bite down on the ripe, red, fleshy fruit. The scent released into the air with the bite is
intoxicating.

Spock’s eyes roll up into his head for
a precious second as he swallows. He opens his mouth, much more eagerly this time and nearly bites off McCoy’s fingers
to catch another morsel of fruit. He licks off the remaining melted chocolate from the doctor’s fingers. McCoy feels
himself grow even harder inside his underwear, if that is at all possible.

“Mmmmm,” Spock murmurs. “More.”

McCoy whimpers then recovers. “There’s
more where that came from, but first,” McCoy tugs at Spock’s soft, grey, cotton tee-shirt, “take this off.
I want to see you.”

Spock obliges him, pulls it up and off. McCoy
grunts in appreciation, runs his fingers though the thick black hair on the sternum.

“I expect you to do likewise,” Spock
nods at the doctor’s silvery sickbay smock. “Off.”

McCoy grabs onto the hem of his smock, feeling
its silkiness caress his fingers as he yanks it and the black cotton undershirt off in one smooth move. Now exposed, the hair
on McCoy’s chest is just as thick, just as sexy as Spock’s, but light brown in color. Spock runs his hands along
it, allowing it to tickle his palms, eliciting a gasp as a warm fingertip makes contact with a nipple.

“More, strawberries,” Spock demands
breathlessly. “Quickly.”

McCoy giggles, pulls out another, takes a bite
of it himself. He pulls the Vulcan to him and claims his mouth. Spock sucks the chocolate and strawberry from McCoy’s
teeth. He breaks away from the doctor’s lips, bends down, puts his mouth around the half eaten strawberry in the doctor’s
fingers, pulling it out of his grasp.

McCoy clamps his mouth around the other side
of it, and together they bite down on the fruit, juice and melted chocolate combine in their mouths. They swallow their respective
pieces of fruit, letting their lips meet in a bruising, chocolate kiss.

They repeat this same action with the third and
fourth and fifth strawberries. McCoy’s mouth feels sore from being sucked on so roughly. But he doesn’t care.

“Chocolate…” Spock is now explaining.
“…has an effect on the Vulcan nervous system that is much more than simple inebriation…”

“Oh…really?”

Spock pushes the doctor down onto his back, rolls
on top of him and thrusts his own hard cock against the doctor’s hardness, both organs still trapped in their respective
fabric prisons. “Chocolate heightens the intensity of sex.”

“Oh…I see…” McCoy murmurs
against the Vulcan’s mouth, out of his fucking mind. Much more of this frottage and he’ll come in his pants. He
clamps his hands onto the denim encased ass. He pulls the Vulcan against him harder. The Vulcan rubs against him for a moment,
then pulls away. “Hey,” McCoy protests.

“Not yet,” Spock admonishes. “You
are too close.”

“Tell me about it.” McCoy reaches
for another strawberry. The chocolate is melted in the box by now from the heat of the cabin. As he picks it up, the melted
chocolate covers his fingers. Spock lifts up McCoy’s hand and sucks the delicious treat from every digit. McCoy groans
out: “Oh…Spock…” at the sight.

Spock pulls the strawberry from McCoy’s
hand and offers it to the doctor. The doctor nibbles the fruit out of his hands hungrily. Spock licks the remaining chocolate
from the human’s hands.

Sitting the doctor up on the bunk, Spock kneels
on the deck, in between the doctor’s thighs.

“Oh…what are you doing…”
McCoy wonders dreamily. His bedroom voice is so soft, so melodic, with a slight Georgian undertone. Spock closes his eyes
at the sound of it. So unlike the usual gruff demeanor in sickbay. So beautiful. He runs his tongue along the doctor’s
cock, still encased in underwear and black uniform pants.

“This prominent bulge of yours,”
Spock mutters, under the influence of chocolate, black fabric held in his teeth. “Is what I study intently every day.”

“Nowhere for it to go,” McCoy whispers
back. “They can’t make these damn things any tighter.”

“Hmmm,” Spock hums against his cock.

“Oh…ohhh!” McCoy suddenly shouts,
brought right to the edge by the hum combined with the heat of Spock’s mouth, still hot even through two layers of clothing.

Spock reaches up and touches the doctor’s
forehead. “Not yet.”

McCoy groans in appreciation as Spock pulls him
back from the edge with that simple touch. Spock replaces his mouth on the fabric encased cock, grabs onto the doctor’s
hands, stroking the palms with two fingers. He brings the doctor to the edge again, pulls him back from it. Brings him to
the edge, pulls him back, once again.

“You can’t keep this up all night,”
McCoy pants heavily, “you’ll kill me. But, what a way to go.” In a quick move, McCoy yanks Spock up, pulls
him over on top of him, meeting their engorged organs together.

Spock, along side of the doctor, waits patiently
for the man to recover, idly drawing a pattern into his arm and chest hair.

McCoy breaths heavily, muttering something about:
“…shouldn’t be engaging in this shit at my age—I’ll be fifty years old in a week, for cryin’
out loud…” Spock rolls his eyes. Fifty is nothing, even for a human.

Another minute and McCoy is ready. McCoy rolls
over, straddles the Vulcan, dips a hand into the pool of melted chocolate from the box. Spock sucks every finger clean obediently.
The nimble surgeon’s hands quickly undo each button on the fly of the Vulcan’s jeans. They draw out the massive
Vulcan cock, coat it in chocolate. McCoy enjoys his treat, not stopping as Spock is squirming, not stopping while Spock is
grabbing his bare shoulder, leaving crescent shaped indentations which will become bruises, not stopping till he tastes that
Vulcan come and hears that dulcet toned moan.

McCoy is hard again. He wants to go on all night,
‘cept this time he wants to be taken, wants Spock to fuck him, fuck him while stoned on melted chocolate. McCoy tugs
at his own waistband, unfastens his trousers, pulls them down past his knees and takes them off, the same goes for his now
soiled underwear and his socks, out of the way and onto the floor.

He leaves those jeans on the pixie. He wants
to feel that thick denim fabric hitting against his thighs.

He reaches over, hands Spock the lube, flips
over onto his stomach, rising up to all fours. “Hurry.”

“Are you certain you are not too old for
this shit?” Spock asks very innocently, and waits for it.

McCoy cranes his head and melts at the Vulcan’s
impish, chocolate induced grin.“Damned elf.”